


Betrayal

by ancslove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Friendship, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, OMCs - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Rape Aftermath, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/pseuds/ancslove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine meeting goes awry, and Enjolras and the Amis must cope with the consequences.  Pre-Canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“So, that’s four rifles and two cases of bullets, delivered to Combeferre by the end of the week. Thank you. Is there anything you would like in return?”

Enjolras was wrapping up a late-night meeting with Boucher, the leader of one of the smaller cells of workers, in the abandoned warehouse. It had been a good meeting. Boucher was newer to the cause, but seemed to have good connections.

“You.” The answer was so unexpected that Enjolras blinked, unsure what the man meant or even if he had heard correctly. 

“Pardon?”

The man stepped closer, a suddenly predatory gleam entering his eye. “You, for one night.”

“Something more relevant to our goals, Citoyen. If that is all, we’ll be in touch.”

Enjolras stepped back, intent on departure. He turned to leave, and pain exploded across his face. He staggered sideways, but his momentum was stopped as a strong grip closed around his arms. Four men, bulky and menacing, had somehow materialized around him.  
In front of him, Boucher smiled, and Enjolras’ heart momentarily stopped. A knife was drawn, and laid against his throat.

“Don’t make a fuss, now. One night, cooperate and you’ll be free to go at daybreak. Resist,” another knife-edged smile, “resist, and we’ll rape you to death.”

Enjolras opened his mouth, ready to argue, to convince the man that this was madness. The blade moved from his throat to his lips, and the words died before he could voice them.

“Think carefully now. Feel free to scream or moan, but if you try to speak, I’ll remove your tongue. You might find that hampers your efforts for the Republic.”

Enjolras swallowed dryly. He would not scream. He refused to give them that. But he would cooperate. Survival was the most important thing right now. Just get through this night. 

The knife withdrew, to be replaced by Boucher’s fingers. The fingers traced his lips, then slid around to grasp his chin tightly. Boucher pressed closer, forcing Enjolras to fall back against the human mountain holding him in place. Enjolras choked as Boucher’s mouth pressed against his, thick, hot tongue driving toward Enjolras’ throat. Before he could adjust, mentally or physically, to the plundering of his mouth, he felt his arms yanked behind his back, and his wrists tied together, painfully tight. God, they had planned the entire attack.

The brutal kiss continued. Overwhelmed, dizzy, Enjolras’ world had quickly contracted to that foreign tongue claiming his mouth, and the hands – so many hands – running over his body. A ripping sound reverberated in his ears. Soon those hands closed on bare, vulnerable skin, and Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself away from this world. The kiss ended, and Enjolras was forced to the ground, on his back, his wrists trapped and crushed by the weight of Boucher’s body as well as his own. The knife was back at his throat, and the hands shifted to pull his now naked thighs apart and back. 

“Remember, don’t fight me,” Boucher whispered into his ear. Enjolras braced as best he could, knowing what was about to happen. Academic knowledge was poor preparation for the real thing. Pain shot through his body, and Enjolras clenched his teeth against a scream. The pain turned to agony when Boucher began moving in and out of him, picking up speed. “Ach, so damn tight!”

Once more, he was given no time to adjust. Cruel fingers entwined in his hair, pulling his head back, and Boucher’s mouth descended once more. Enjolras gagged against the invading tongue. Cock and tongue sped up their thrusts, and Boucher began moaning into his kiss. The rhythm built to almost unendurable levels, before Boucher gave one last, brutal thrust and shuddered, collapsing onto his victim. Enjolras wanted to vomit as the hot liquid filled him, but he refused to yield to such a reaction. Boucher’s hips continued to rock against him for another minute or so, Boucher’s tongue lapped almost lazily at his face, and then finally it was over. 

Once his attacker’s weight was removed, Enjolras shifted slowly, painfully onto his side, desperate to relieve his crushed wrists.

“That was incredible. You’re truly a great fuck, as hot as I imagined you.” 

Sick, dazed, Enjolras didn’t respond. 

“All yours, boys! Just don’t fuck his ass. That’s mine!” 

The words didn’t entirely make sense to Enjolras, but he did comprehend that his ordeal was far from finished. The hands closed again on him, and dragged him to his knees. Harsh fingers dug into his jaw. A thick cock rubbed across and into his face, then butted against his lips. The fleshy weapon thrust inside, making Enjolras choke once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours later, Enjolras lay curled up, half on the filthy floor and half in the lap of one of his abusers. All four accomplices, plus Boucher, had used his mouth. Boucher had also raped his body twice more, climaxing once. This was the first time since the assault had begun that his body was empty for any significant length of time, but hands still played across his chest, casually molesting him, pinching his nipples and prodding the bruises. The respite could not last. Again, his head was lifted, his mouth fed with cock. The phallus filled his mouth and throat, moving slowly in and out. Exhausted and broken, Enjolras kept his eyes closed and rode out this newest rape.

Several more hours passed in a blur. When daylight finally filtered through the cracked walls, Enjolras had lost all sense of time. He didn’t feel it when his numb wrists were released. The hand against his cheek demanded his attention. Boucher leaned over him, with a sated, happy leer.  
“That was amazing. I dreamed of doing that since the moment I laid eyes on you. We’ll get those arms to your group. See you around.”  
A final, deep kiss that Enjolras barely registered, and then they were gone. 

For an indeterminate time, Enjolras lay curled on the floor, shaking uncontrollably. It was finally over, but his body was slow to realize that fact. Eventually, he dragged himself up and began to dress. His clothes were beyond repair, and his entire body ached. With a scrap of his ruined waistcoat, he mechanically scrubbed at his face, desperate to remove the evidence. He stood on weakened legs and began to make his way home. The streets were filling with people, and Enjolras clung instinctively to the shadows. Halfway home, he knew he wouldn’t make it.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m coming!” Bossuet grumbled to himself, making his way to the door. It had not been a good day so far, and he’d only been awake an hour. He’d already stepped in the chamber pot (Lady Fortuna wasn’t totally pissed at him yet, because at least it was still empty), and thus tripped and cracked his elbow on the dresser. Plus, he’d stubbed his toe by stepping in the chamber pot in the first place. The resulting bang and curse had woken Joly, who threw a rather heavy pillow at his head, knocking him into the wall. He’d put a pot of coffee on the stove, and promptly scalded himself with the steam when he went to pour. All in all, it did not bode well. Yanking the door open, all thought and speech left him.

Enjolras collapsed against him, falling out of the door frame. Disheveled, barely dressed, practically unconscious – Bossuet almost dropped him in shock. “JOLY!!!”

The shout caused Enjolras to jerk out of Bossuet’s grasp and fall to the ground. Bossuet dropped down beside him, thwacking his knee in the process. He didn’t notice the new bruise. Enjolras shied away from him, eyes wide yet unseeing. Bossuet frowned, “Easy, lad. You know where you are, right? You’re safe.” 

Joly appeared beside them, making gentle shushing noises. As Enjolras’ breathing evened out and he calmed, Joly carefully wrapped a blanket around him, then turned to his roommate. “Go get a tub of hot water from the landlady. Don’t try to carry it up! I’ll be down to help.”

By the time Bossuet had roused the landlady and wrangled her into giving more water, Joly met him. 

“How is he? Alright being left alone?”

“I couldn’t move him to the sofa, but he settled on the floor. Mostly asleep now. Are you thinking what I am?”  
Bossuet nodded grimly. “He stinks of sex. Took me a minute to recognize it, just because I never expected it on him.”  
Joly grasped the bucket of water with one hand and gave some money to Bossuet with the other. “Take a fiacre and get Combeferre. Hurry back!” 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The sounds of deep retching greeted Joly as he approached his apartment. Joly hurried through the door as quickly as he could, to see Enjolras vomiting violently on the floor. Kneeling beside him, Joly tore at his own sleeve, then dipped the scrap of cloth into the water. Having thoroughly expelled the contents of his stomach, Enjolras was now dry-heaving in painful spells. Slowly, carefully, Joly reached for his shoulder. Enjolras flinched back, radiating a terror that Joly had hoped never to see on any of his friends. 

“Enjolras, please! It’s just me. Joly. Deep breaths, there you go.”

The words weren’t doing much, so Joly switched to gentle cooing, hoping that his voice and tone would be able to pierce the haze of pain and fear. Enjolras gradually stilled, more from exhaustion, Joly thought, than real calm or comfort. Seizing advantage of the lull, he maneuvered the now almost catatonic blond away from the pool of vomit. Dabbing gently, he began to clean Enjolras’ face. For the first time since Enjolras’ arrival, he could start to catalogue the injuries. The long golden hair was matted and filthy, hanging in tangled clumps. Enjolras’ lips were bruised and swollen. More bruises ringed his throat and spotted his shoulders, visible through the torn shirt. His wrists were torn and abraded, and just the thought of Enjolras being restrained and abused somewhere almost made Joly sick himself. Swallowing down the bile, he continued to clean away the grime and dried fluids. 

“Enjolras, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

Enjolras had been still and quiet, eyes downcast, while Joly washed his face and smoothed back his dirtied hair. Now, the blue eyes lifted and focused on him. A slow nod was his only response, but Joly took some small reassurance from the clear, if faded, gaze. The eyes were dimmed and cloudy, but aware. 

“I’ll be right back. Shh, just breathe.” Another faint nod, and Joly quickly ran to the kitchen to grab a cup and some more cloths. When he returned, he found Enjolras curled up in a tight coil on the floor. He filled the cup halfway with water from the bucket, and held it to Enjolras’ lips. 

“Slowly, now. Rinse your mouth first, then take a few sips,” he encouraged. Enjolras obeyed, but started choking as the water hit his swollen throat. Mentally cursing his own idiocy, Joly did his best to help Enjolras through the fit. “Sorry, I’m so sorry! God, what did they do to you?”

The door burst open, and a panicked Combeferre rushed through, followed by Bossuet. Skidding to a halt in front of them, Combeferre dropped a bagful of supplies and knelt down. Enjolras’ head came up and his shoulders eased slightly. Joly drew back to give the two a moment of relative privacy, and stepped to Bossuet.

“Have you found out anything yet?” Bossuet asked.

“Nothing much more than what we speculated. He hasn’t spoken yet, he might to Combeferre. I haven’t fully examined him, but the visible injuries are sickening.”

Joly glanced back over. Combeferre had let the blanket pool around Enjolras’ legs, and slipped off the tattered shirt. Neither seemed to be speaking as Combeferre tended to Enjolras’ torso, applying salves to the bruises and welts. He was in the process of wrapping the wounded wrists when Joly joined them. Combeferre looked up and filled him in, “There are several slight fractures. Not bad enough to warrant a full splint, I think – a tight wrap over some ointment should immobilize the bones and help them heal.” 

Enjolras was also staring up at him now with wide, grave eyes, and Joly’s heart broke. 

“What can I do?” he asked. Joly knew he was quite capable of caring for Enjolras’ wounds, but with Combeferre here, he hesitated to intrude. Enjolras had always been closest to Combeferre, theirs was a communion of souls that none of the others could touch. Joly knew that Enjolras loved them all, but his relationship with Combeferre was simply on a different plane, just as Joly had his own special bond with Bossuet. And if Enjolras had been . . . assaulted in the manner that Joly and Bossuet feared, he might feel more comfortable if Combeferre did the tending and prodding, rather than Joly. 

“Do you mind if we relocate to a bed?” Combeferre asked, and Joly immediately blushed. Of course, he should have thought of that. But, in his defense, it had been difficult enough coaxing Enjolras away from the pile of sick on the floor, which, thank God for his initiative because Joly himself had somehow forgotten all about it and it was just a breeding ground for a plethora of germs, Bossuet was finishing cleaning up. Joly would sterilize the floor later.

“Right, forgive me. Enjolras, can you stand?” Still no verbal response from the blond, but he allowed himself to be helped to his feet and guided through the bedroom door and down onto the bed. Combeferre removed his shoes, pulled the cover over him, and whispered something that Joly didn’t quite hear. Catching Joly’s eye, he tilted his head back towards the door, and Joly followed him out.

“Bossuet couldn’t tell me much, but he did say that Enjolras was likely violated. I don’t mean to presume or offer offense, but could I examine him alone? I’ll call you if I need help, and I’m certainly not doubting your skills, but Enjolras’ state worries me greatly, and I’d do anything to ease his mind.”

“Certainly, my friend, and no offense taken. Whatever Enjolras needs.” If it had been Lesgles, Joly would have made the same request.  
Combeferre sighed in relief and went to retrieve the water and supplies, “Thank you. I appreciate your understanding, although I know I shouldn’t have feared. Has he spoken at all about what happened?”

Joly shook his head in plain concern, “Not a word, about anything. He was physically sick earlier, and then he choked when I tried to get him to sip some water. I’m worried too, and once we find who did this,” he trailed off. He didn’t consider himself a naturally violent person, and as an aspiring doctor, he’d seen his share of crimes and injuries, but never did he think that one of his own friends would fall victim. 

Combeferre nodded, steely-eyed. “All in good time.” That said, he vanished through the door. Joly watched him go, then headed for the kitchen to put more coffee on the stove. Saying a quick, silent prayer for his friend, he drew a breath, trying to steady his nerves. Then Bossuet was by his side, and Joly gave himself over to his eagle’s comforting embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

Half an hour later, Combeferre busied himself cleaning up his supplies, in an effort to settle his shaking hands. The physical damage was nauseating, but what terrified him was the as yet undetermined emotional fallout. Enjolras was strong and resilient, but he had an inherent tendency to prioritize just about anything else above his own needs, and that could be devastating right now. He halted when Enjolras laid a hand over his own.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispered, and Combeferre wished he could be surprised.

“Don’t be, you’ve done nothing wrong. When you are ready to talk, I’m here for you. Until then, just rest.”

Enjolras stared down at the bedcover listlessly. He looked utterly drained, and yet seemed unwilling to give in to sleep, and Combeferre’s heart bled for him. He hated that he didn’t know how to best help his closest friend, and his helplessness only fed his fury. But this was neither the time nor place. Casting about for some distraction, Combeferre fell back on their work, the one topic sure to ignite Enjolras’ spirit.

“Shh, try not to think of it right now. How did your meeting go? Did they agree about the weapons?”

He was thoroughly unprepared for Enjolras to flinch back into the wall. Breathing so rapidly he nearly choked, Enjolras couldn’t answer as his eyes glazed over again, lost in his own terrified memory. Comprehension hit, and in that instant, Combeferre made a snap decision and reached for the bottle of laudanum that Enjolras had earlier refused. Pouring out a mouthful, he prayed that he wasn’t merely compounding trauma on trauma as he coaxed the liquid down his friend’s throat. He only hoped that Enjolras forgave him. Clenching his fist, he turned his mind to the broader problem. They would pay. He would get Enjolras feeling settled and safe, and then he’d make those foul traitors answer for their crime.

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“What?”

It wasn’t the most eloquent, elegant question, and it was a good thing that Courfeyrac wasn’t here to remark on his lack of sophistication, but at this moment, Bahorel could only stare in complete incomprehension and repeat, “Sorry, what?”

The other man was the definition of nondescript. Average height and build, hair the color of a dead mouse, and unremarkable clothes. But, he was a runner and spy for a group that often worked with the Amis, valuable to the cause for his very unmemorability. He repeated,

“Enjolras. We heard what happened. One of our boys was in a tavern this morning, and they were bragging about it.”

It was too early for riddles. Alright, it was almost midday, and Bahorel hadn’t yet seen any of his friends, and he was feeling surly.

“What about Enjolras? Speak plainly, what the hell are you talking about?!”

The other man’s gaze softened, and the sympathy in his eyes did not improve Bahorel’s mood. This wasn’t going to be good.

“You haven’t heard yet, I’m so sorry. Boucher and his gang were boasting about ‘enjoying’ your Enjolras last night. I wasn’t there, but my friend was, and he said the things they were saying were disgusting. Blanqui’s been told, and he’s ready to take action – bad for our cause to be sullied with such a travesty. I was sent here to ask if any of you would join us, but. Maybe it’s not true after all, and they were spouting empty, drunken talk?” He looked up hopefully.

Bahorel had been listening in growing alarm, and now grabbed the man by the arm and pinned him against the café table. “Thank you for the news. And invitation. But, you tell Blanqui to wait until I send word, you hear? Don’t do anything! I haven’t heard anything, but then I haven’t seen anyone today yet. So, just wait. If Enjolras’ been hurt, then that is ours to avenge! Not Blanqui. You work with us, we don’t work with you, understand?”

The messenger nodded submissively, “Of course. I’ll tell them.”

“Good,” Bahorel nodded. “I’ll get back to you soon. Wait! One thing you can do. I don’t want any talk of Enjolras on the streets or in the taverns. Any. See to that.”

With that, Bahorel stormed out of the café. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Combeferre gazed down at his sleeping friend. The laudanum was only a temporary fix, one that Enjolras might well resent upon waking, but Combeferre couldn’t bear to see him suffer so horribly. Right now, he needed rest and peace to start the healing process. If Combeferre’s suspicions were correct, the coming days would tax all their reserves. Shaking his head, he laid a fond hand against Enjolras’ cheek, gently stroking a spreading bruise, then rose to find the others.

Joly and Bossuet were sitting huddled together on the main couch, neither speaking. Joly looked up quickly as the door swung open.

“How is he? Has he said anything?”

“Not well. I put him to sleep.” Combeferre slumped into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. 

“Was he really…” Joly trailed off, and Combeferre nodded.

“Yes. He’s badly bruised, and there’s also internal damage. His voice and throat are raw, some tea and honey might be good when he wakes. But, physically at least, he will fully recover.”

“Did he give any hint of what happened?” asked Bossuet, one arm wrapped tightly around Joly’s shoulders.  
Combeferre scrubbed a hand through his hair wearily. “He didn’t say much, but from his reaction – I think the new group was involved. The one he was supposed to meet about securing more weapons.”

“Damn!” Joly’s soft curse spoke for them all. “What happens now?”

Lifting his head, Combeferre spared a moment to clean his smudged glasses. Annoyingly, his fingers still trembled slightly. “Enjolras is my priority, now and always. We wait for him, and when he’s ready, he’ll talk. But they won’t go unpunished.”

“If it was them, we may not be able to go to the police,” Bossuet warned. “If they can lure and attack Enjolras like this, they could turn us all in out of sheer spite.”

“Mm,” Joly nodded. “Ensure that we go down with them, so to speak.”

Combeferre’s eyes hardened. “Then we find another justice. But this discussion is premature.”

A loud knock at the door made them all jump. Motioning Joly to answer it, Combeferre mentally scolded himself for his reaction. But with Enjolras lying in a drugged sleep in the next room, his raw nerves couldn’t settle. Joly opened the door to find an edgy Bahorel.

“Hello, Joly. You wouldn’t happen to know Combeferre’s whereabouts, would you? I need to find Enjolras, and when he’s not in a mood to be found, Combeferre’s my best option.”

Joly stepped back, allowing Bahorel into the apartment. The big man immediately zeroed in on his target.

“Combeferre, good, you are here! Where is Enjolras? It is imperative that I talk to him!”

Combeferre hedged warily, wondering if Bahorel could have heard something, or if another emergency had happened. “Why do you need him so urgently?”

His suspicions seemed confirmed when Bahorel’s gaze shifted away. “I need to speak with him. There are rumours on the street that he needs to know.”

“Rumours about him?” demanded Joly. “Speak plainly, Bahorel. This roundabout doesn’t suit you.”

“Not until I speak to him,” Bahorel insisted. The rest all glanced at each other, their secret hanging heavily between them. 

Bahorel was a smart man, able to put the pieces together. “So it is true. Where is he now?”

At a bob from Combeferre, Joly waved a hand toward the bedroom door. “Asleep. He collapsed in our doorway this morning – I don’t know how he even managed to climb the stairs. Where and what did you hear?”

Bahorel plopped himself on the end of the couch and looked across to Combeferre. “One of Blanqui’s men told me. His buddy saw Boucher’s gang bragging in a tavern this morning. They’re ready to mobilize – Blanqui’s group, that is. I told them to wait for my word. I had hoped that this was a matter of empty boasting.”

Combeferre bit his lip, struggling to control his own fear and fury. It was good to have confirmation, but it came in the worst way imaginable. Enjolras would hate having his pain made so public. This could cripple his recovery before he even had a chance to heal. The involvement of Blanqui and his followers also accelerated their own timeline. An indignant Blanqui would not wait for long, and the Amis could not afford to hesitate. Enjolras might not be allowed the time he needed, before he’d be pressed for answers, for a decision. Eyes straying to the bedroom door, Combeferre resolved to shoulder as much of the burden and responsibility as he could. He hoped that would be enough.

“Do you think they will wait?” asked Bossuet. 

“They will if they know what’s good for them!” Bahorel declared. “I also told them to squelch any talk of Enjolras in the cafés and on the street. Blanqui will pull through for us. More importantly, how is Enjolras?”

Slouching further into his chair, Combeferre exhaled wearily. “Hurt. Tormented. I’m extremely worried about him.”

“Tell him that everything will turn out all right. I’m off again, I’ll bring back any news I hear. I take it we’re the only ones who knows about this?”

“Thank you, Bahorel,” Combeferre replied. “We’ll keep you informed as well. And yes, none of the others know yet.”

“Right, understood.”

With that, Bahorel exited, leaving the others to sit and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All caught up! And I'm hoping to have an actual, new update before New Year.
> 
> Blanqui is a historical figure, an active Republican during the reigns of Charles X and Louis-Philippe, and later a member of the Amis du Peuple. He'll appear in this fic later on. This work is set pre-1830. (Actually, it's set before Marius meets Courfeyrac and Les Amis de L'ABC.)


	5. Chapter 5

Bossuet stirred the pot of tea, keeping an ear perked for sounds of life from the other room. Both Joly and Combeferre were out, one to class and the other to pick up more supplies, leaving Bossuet with a list of instructions as he kept watch. Grabbing a bundle of clothes and blankets under one arm and a mug of tea in the other hand, he went to check on their patient. 

Enjolras was awake, turning toward him to blink dark, hazy eyes. 

“He drugged me.”

It wasn't a question, was never a question with Enjolras, but Bossuet couldn’t help answering affirmatively anyway. “He judged that you needed the rest.” No need, either, to name the “he” in question. Enjolras’ health was Combeferre’s prerogative.

Enjolras’ slight nod, pensive and distant, made Bossuet shift uneasily. He didn’t know how to properly handle this. He was used to lavishing physical affection and comfort on Joly when his roommate was troubled or distressed, but he knew that Enjolras wouldn’t welcome such an overture. Not from him. And his other usual method, of laughter to deflect pain, seemed woefully inadequate here. Shaking his head to clear it, he moved forward into the small room and held out his offerings.

“Joly left some clothes for you, if you like, you and he are close in build. And Combeferre left orders that you drink this. Oh! There’s also more water for a bath, that I can heat whenever you’re ready.”

Enjolras reached for the tea, murmuring hoarse thanks. As he did, the blanket that cocooned him slipped from his shoulders, and Bossuet winced at the livid bruising.

“Bastards. They tried to strangle you?”

“To make my throat even tighter.” Enjolras froze as the words left his lips, seemingly of their own volition. Humiliation crept across his cheeks and his eyes stared fixedly at Bossuet’s feet, lost in dark memory and present shame. 

Pity and fury entwined helplessly in Bossuet’s heart as he watched his friend’s struggle, until he could no longer bear the strain in the room. 

“Let me heat that bath for you.” 

Without waiting for an assent or registering Enjolras’ flinch, he set down his bundle and retreated into the main room. On his own, he drew a deep breath to steady his racing emotions, and prayed for Combeferre to return soon.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Heard your group has taken to a new method of recruitment.” An arm dropped heavily across Courfeyrac’s shoulders, almost, almost throwing off his aim. Instead, the billiard flew straight to his target, and Courfeyrac straightened, turning to see his new companion. He was Pierre Labarre, a notorious gossip with republican sympathies. The lascivious leer marring the man’s face left no doubt about his meaning here, and Courfeyrac summoned a smile. 

“Hardly a group method! While I have no compunction about mixing business with pleasure, and some ladies have surprising interests, not everyone is so evolved.”

“That’s not what I heard.” There was a darkness to Pierre’s tone that made Courfeyrac distinctly uneasy.

“Speak plainly, Monsieur.”

Pierre leaned in close. “Word is your leader finally realized that he draws people by more than just his words.” 

The burst of loud laughter escaped him before Courfeyrac even knew what he was doing. “You’re talking about Enjolras?!” Heads swiveled their way, and Courfeyrac stifled his laughter, stepping away from the billiard table and motioning Pierre to follow. “You need better sources, my friend.”

“My sources are impeccable. And the news of the day is that Enjolras is now spreading his legs for the Republic.”

Courfeyrac’s fist tightened around the cue he still held, but he kept his temper. “Your sources clearly have more understanding of wine and hashish than of Enjolras. And you would do well to avoid the pitfalls of rumor and slander.”

Pierre’s leer continued, undaunted. “It was only a matter of time, I suppose. No one could be as genuinely pure and pristine as he presented, I always figured that he had to have hidden depths. I’ve got some resources to give, for what’s on offer. He’s close enough to my—“ 

The anger snapped into a haze of red, and for the second time in five minutes, Courfeyrac lost control. His arm shot out, billiard cue smashing into the offending mouth. Next thing he knew, he was on the ground swinging, as all reason was lost. A flailing fist caught him on the chin, knocking his teeth together, and then hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up. His rage latched onto this new, intruding target, and he lashed out. Dimly, he heard a crash, and then another, as chaos descended.

New arms grabbed him, lifting him away from the mess of assailants and furniture, dragging him out the door. He struggled, until a heavy hand landed across his face and a voice shouted his name in his ear. The rage broke as quickly as it began, and Courfeyrac blinked dizzily up at Bahorel.

“What the hell happened in there, man? I thought you disparaged public brawls.”

Courfeyrac shook his head, trying to regain his wits. “I don’t know. He – he was talking about Enjolras. I snapped. The things he was saying. . . I don’t know why I couldn’t shrug it off, but. You didn’t hear him!”

Bahorel looked down gravely, far too serious for Courfeyrac’s peace of mind. “Who was saying what, now?”

“Labarre. You know, he’s sometimes brought stories to us. And he said that the current news is Enjolras. Selling himself for the Republic. Only, said in typical Labarre fashion. It’s not only ridiculous, it’s insulting! To hear Enjolras of all people, referred to as a common whore. And I know I should have ignored him, brushed it off, but he was so damn sure of himself, and so eager to, to make his own offer. That anyone could picture Enjolras like that! And I –“ Bahorel cut him off before his rage could properly rebuild.

“Yes, I can imagine. Come with me, you haven’t heard.”

Courfeyrac glared. “You cannot possibly tell me that there is any grain of truth in this disgraceful scuttlebutt!”

“No. It’s worse.”


End file.
